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This Week's Featured Poems

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Change the World

Stagnant hateful world we live 
Something has got to give
 Mass destruction of the human soul
Innocent lives have become the toll
False prophets who have manipulated the word
Has planted a seed in every boy and girl 
  It's time to take back ALL our lost
 And teach them love at any cost 
Stop judging people on how they look
Or who they love,or what book

Copyright © Jessica Zorn | Year Posted 2016

Soon

Soon is the time when blankets will be tucked under chins
moonlight will wash over frosted trees.
the clinking sound of empty milk bottles
early in the pre-dawn air as life begins to stir from slumber
moving into day.
I find myself on bended knees
I hear myself say.

Soon, 

as if a prelude to the words that God might pray

There are no whispers now
this thin reed life bends so slowly still
I long somehow
to capture the sound of fleeting footsteps 
with my quill as if contained
it could be reigned in, caught up,
but not so brief encased

So soon the memories are all erased

We all ask for it
Breathed between the breath
seeking life fearing death
But soon, so soon.

This lasting night with fingers stroking
hearts and minds and souls provoking
will arrive.
Born upon our backs and taking
all the gifts enjoyed by living
inspiration
motivation 
expiration

All nations of our weak vocabulary’s trace
marked in lines on every weary face

Our friend invites us in for tea
Once or twice to taste 
you see

And every night we sleep 
and in our slumber
seem so meek

Arise Goliath, pantheon of prayered Gods
Unhook your coats
move to where your Father trods
The path called Destiny awaits
we, of little choice, are lost, who hesitates

For we are the Trolls of our fears
listening deep with forefathers ears
marching on and ever on
the slippery and the shining 
to a dusk and to a dawn

for soon

comes the now for which we wait
A crashing cow thrashing now
within each moon’s arising

And we upon our books rely
all tears of yesterday defy
sums upon our sums surmising
until at last we die

Soon the poured tea gone
all laments stored by generation
classified and categorized 
organized and strategized
remain

our lasting stain.

What have we really learned
when all that burned was one brief match?

A scratch upon the pimpled ass of life.

It is not one  
It is not many
It is 
all there is

and soon

approaching the collected
neglecting the infected 
collecting the neglected
reproaching the protected

So many useless/useful things
surrounded by your view,
instilled with meaning, bought
and stored by you.

and soon

The pillow will seem softer now
life filled with fuzzy logic,
not so harsh.
The hurters seem more hurt.
The rushed more passive in their passing.

The garish ghosts just sheets of starch.

A rain that washes from the inside now.

and soon 
Thy Will be done

and soon i will become.

Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2020

Poetry

Verse should not be caged
but released to fly freely
and land on a heart

Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2015



Growing Old

Growing Old
Robert E. Welch, Sr.
July 15, 2018



How did I get so old so fast?
As I looked in the mirror one day.
It seems like only yesterday
I was happily at play.

Where did it go, where can it be?
The spirit of days gone by.
My youth has suddenly disappeared
And all I can ask is “why”?

Now a weathered face I see;
It’s one I barely know.
My tired eyes, my head turned down;
Dark hair has turned to snow.

Growing old comes much too fast
So, live each day the best.
And should a tired face look back
You know it’s time to rest.

Copyright © Robert Welch | Year Posted 2018

A Dreamed Story That Never Happened

One Blackberry winter in the cliffs of Ireland
An early woodpecker passed by
And a red robin flying so high
Colored like chrysalis in an orange land

A white clown I am, peace and wind
  I see, feel around
Early winter in plain view so far by the harbor
Peace, joy, contentment has a realist painter
Sun and sand minichu over the ground
The winter gift I wished this day engulfed

Sands of time of motherly wind
Turquoise TriSaratop dining out
Blueberries released three inches by wind
Flies, mockingbird and butterfly eating out

Flushed mind, not of the writer's friend I recall
Laughed at the white clown discovered by one and all
Purple sage of golden fall, magically mingled almost fall
Tattered but warm, Australia down under brushed strokes
  in hibiscus flowers of the coming Fall

Pink cotton candy I missed like Sp
Not Spam of the drenching rain in flight
Smell like tricolored cat, not Rocky
Busy as ocean waves but behaved when she met the master

Cardinal beauty in the whisps of Spring
Hummingbird intrigued by a kiss of sunshine bring
On the old wooden bench I sat and dross
Number "10" I saw carved on wood so gross

Two birds suddenly appeared
Drenched like butterfly kisses on spilled coffee brewed
One Rutabaga cooked with liatis for me
Cold was I, splitting an infinitive of me

Two days later he gave me two pink birds
And I named them in Italian, "Pane e Tulipani"



"Story written, commending a dreamed poetess
 Titles written by the same revered poetess
 Only some titles named and  listed
 Many of you already knew and bested."


(Prosebite)

Copyright © Clifford Villalon | Year Posted 2023

Sound of Winter

Push and shove,
Velcro up your gloves
There's snow in the square,
In the other corner is love,
Cold and unforgiving
Like the clouds up above
Herself, she shivers in spite of
Searching for meaning
In a house come undone
She opens her window,
Listens for the sun

And then she finally heard it:
Absolute,
Resolute,
Silence

Copyright © Andrew Travis | Year Posted 2017

march's door

march’s door

 
what remains when seasonal flowers wilt
and there is no chocolate left on your lips?

it seems we have only the winter sky
void of shooting stars or falling rain

and it is cold when morning crawls out
from the dark solitude of night 

i remember when laughter marinated
and at days end it was rich and full

but when i wonder what is left of the day
i realize i can no longer hear the chatter of laughter

nor smell the flowers
or taste the chocolate

there was no laughter after the flowers wilted
and darkness fell like shutters on a cold window

perhaps i will choose to die alone
when march closes it’s heavy door

snow will come and go
taking the white to unknown places

perhaps there I will taste the cold water
I so long thirsted to know


@ tolbert

Copyright © wayne tolbert | Year Posted 2025

Ecotone

Ecotone 

I did not plant the prairie tickseed that appeared among
The cultivated flowers of my garden and quickly dominated.
It seemed to say, “We live, still!

My house sits in a tension zone, an ecological “no man’s land” where
Tall Grass Prairie and the Cross Timbers, vie for control.  
Here the vagaries of weather assure that all who enter are mistreated. 

Seasons turn through the Zone as Fall, Winter, Spring,
And the Heat.  The moisture-prickling Heat, like a visit from
The in-laws, comes early, stays long and wearies the endurance. 

Rainfall is the fickle arbiter of the Zone. It befriends the trees
Almost; the grass too much.  Legions of plants, playthings
Of climate, contending over millennia for land suitable to neither. 

They were not untended. Cultivation by wild fires, twisting winds, floods
And drought, performed acts of purification and renewal; encroachers purged,
Minerals recycled, seeds scattered, and the arena reset for the endless contest.

But gone now are blades of Blue Stem and pickets of Post Oak.
Red subsoil overlaid with Bermuda sod is my “Sooner” system;
An inanity to the Zone kept on life support by irrigation and fertilizer. 

Bermuda minders are hungry yet grow heavy with time
And plenty.  They seek order amid uncertainty, and
Shelter from risk, yet cast their lot in a tension zone.

Their dis-ease stems from attempted breakouts of the Cultivators
Struggling to wrest free of human controls. (They who are said to have
Ears to hear a wildfire in its death throes claim it hisses, “We live, still!”)

They are not alone. Homes of the coastal naïf become
Mere tender for Chaparral fires as those of a floodplain
Are flotsam for the river. 

Like mallards returning to the same pond
After each thinning by hunters, the unwitting 
Rebuild as the Cultivators whisper, ”We live still”

Copyright Paul Thomson 2017

Copyright © Paul Thomson | Year Posted 2021

Song unsung

There is a piece I've longed to share,
which, up 'til now, I wouldn't dare,
where courage pushes fear aside
and shackles up my foolish pride... 

To put to words, as much for me,
affection in simplicity,
and say those things I wished I could...
that chance may now be gone for good. 

I near succumbed to COVID's wrath;
now, barricades deny clear path -
a bottleneck for oxygen.
So much to tell; where to begin?

A battle raged; a drawn-out war
that ended with a winning score:
I pulled ahead - a blessed reprieve;
the reaper's gone; yet, still, I grieve. 

For scars remain; we coexist.
Not given up; I will persist,
but dreams? There was one 'mong the few:
to hold you close and sing for you...

A tune that melds our hearts together,
and keeps us warm through stormy weather,
a lullaby to ease all fear
and let you know how much I care. 

But vocals won't cooperate;
on ev'ry nerve the raucous grates. 
Those singing days are done, it seems;
some visions, sadly, dwell in dreams. 

If fate insists that I must wait,
this voice will ring at Heaven's gate!
So, pardon, if I'm way off-tune;
at least, at last, Love will shine through!!



Jodie
5/23/25

Copyright © Hello There | Year Posted 2025

A Crack In the Wall

I look both right and left
All I see is a wall made of stone and brick
There are no openings
There are no cracks
I know why it was built
How was it built?
Who laid the first brick
Did it start the day we met?
Did I say the wrong thing?
Was it that I didn't love you the way you wanted?
Am I the only one who created the wall?
I tried to reach you but it was already too high
My heart would not lift me high enough to even see over
What is on your side?
Are you happy there?
Do you have any cracks?
Is there one single brick missing?
One brick where feelings can slip through
If that one brick is gone
If there is a single space
My love can find its way through
Then and only then will the wall crumble
Turning into piles of hate
Piles we can ignore
And we can love again

Copyright © Lord R. E. Taylor | Year Posted 2007

Reservoir

Poplars
 
against the rising moon;
filled full of roosting cormorants-
sleeping;
as 
long shadows,
rippling between
reflections of scudding clouds-
where evanescent images
settle.

Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007

How and When, Will It All End

I once wrote a poem
about that time I looked into my dog’s eyes
and asked questions
and searched answers of existence.

Another time, another poem
my attention captured by a mountain peak
as I found in the depths of tranquility
a revelation in my being.

One summer morning
a poem about flowers in a garden
and how the morning dew was upon their petals still.
Wrote about the sights, and the sounds, and the smells
and the delights flowers provide for the living.

Perhaps today
a poem about that time I got lost
and was crying at a picnic
and how that woman found me
brought me back to my parents
who eased the unrest
that I had experienced deep within my soul.

But mind always compels me to write another
while consumed by the sight of wrinkles on my face
and my thinning gray hair
pulled into a mind created vortex
of fear and uncertainty
which causes me to wonder
how and when
it will one day all end.

Copyright © George Yiorgos Stathakis | Year Posted 2022

Liberating Trilogy: Jamaican Shining Stars!

She is known as Honorable Queen Mother Nanny. The lady was so sweet as sugar candy.
Enhancing the fight, smiling with much delight, knowing her cause was right.
She was the awesomely true Westward Maroon liberation queen in the highest esteem.
Hailing from Ghana's Gold Coast as an Ashanti or Akan—"A free woman!"

His Excellency the Right Honorable Marcus Mosiah Garvey Jr. "Visionary Diasporan."
Founder, Universal Negro Improvement Association and African Communities League. 
Created the Black Star Liner, forging the link between African and North America
Desiring to take his people back to their ancestral African roots, starting with Liberia.

The heroic grandfather, The Honorable Paul Bogle, says, "No taxation without representation!"
National Jamaican hero, Stony Gut Baptist Church deacon, and Morant Bay "Victor!"
Usually referred to as a "Shaka Zulu Pickney," an ancestral famed freedom fighter.
Proverbial singer Bob Marley uplifts his grace in the song "So Much Things to Say."

Faces printed on currency show the value of national and cultural pride—"None to hide!"
Standing on many shoulders, such strengthening standard-bearers, faithfully abiding! 

© His Excellency, Professor, Ambassador, Dr. Joseph S. Spence, Sr (Epulaeryu Master)!

Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2024

The Proposal

The dearest heart you will be to me
affectionate I'll always be
reverent our love to see
lasting forever we both decree
In as much my deepest desire
is never to extinguish my fire
give my love each and every hour
pray  my God to give me that power
my lady, my love, my life
will you marry me

Copyright © The Situation | Year Posted 2010

Questions In the Night

I can't sleep
Around me 
Are quiet sounds
Of the night
Ticking of a clock
Creaking of the floor
Bored
I look out from my apartment
There is no one on the streets.
Hearing a scratching sound
I carefully tiptoe across the room
So no one will see or hear me
Placing my ear against the wall
I hear voices
Angry voices
Hysterical voices
Muffled voices
Someone is upset
They take turns yelling
I want to bang on the walls
And tell them for Christ sakes
It's two am in the morning
Why don't you take it outside
Or better yet go out and fly a kite.
My idea is ridiculous
The voices will not go outside
In the night
And fly a kite
They continue arguing
Over what I don't know
And I wonder
Does a loud angry voice
Make a quiet voice wrong?

Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2009

My Words

Closely feel my words, they carry you in,
from herein, to the world,
only for you, these words yearn,
my words wriggle, wait and burn.


Copyright © Dr. Vandana Sharma | Year Posted 2025



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